There are two things you do not want to hear when you return from a golf trip. Two things which do not go hand in hand with days of thirty six holes, Pinot Grigiot and early starts. I heard them both. They were not music to my ears. Or my legs. And if Ernie Els had asked, I would have said: “No”.
The Foot Prof would not have been amused. A week of hammering the metatarsals on the tee. Thirty six holes between sunrise and sunset. The Prof with his chunky cufflinks and compliancy rules had replaced the hobble and pain with fairways and the joy of the well struck shot. The needles and drugs were a distant memory and life was good. With two feet.
It had been a good trip . Despite the start.
“You have got to be kidding” said the Sheriff, looking at the clubs and the trolley, the battery and charger. A golf holdall for golf bits and pieces. Hand warmers, spare socks and sun block. Golf shoes. Plus a spare pair in case it rained. The Galvins and black umbrella. The suitcase had been ditched for a kitbag, overflowing with shoes, hair dryer, hair straighteners, jeans, shirts, fluffy towel and pillow and a book for bedtime. Dried fruit and cereal bars for fairway munching. Ipod, camera and laptop. Plus chargers. continue reading…
